


Seeing the Impossible

by FabulaRasa



Category: DCU
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 08:51:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FabulaRasa/pseuds/FabulaRasa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One night in the cave, Dick sees something he really, really was not intended to see. (Partial completion of a fic request from <a href="http://therealbuckinghamalice.tumblr.com/">Buckingham Alice</a>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time Dick saw something going on between them, it honestly took him a good three to four seconds to figure it out. It wasn't that he found sex mystifying—not the kid who lost his own virginity at fourteen (and he prayed Bruce never found out exactly how young he had been) and at thirteen had known details of human sexual activity that would have mystified most thirty-year-olds. So it wasn't the sex. It wasn't even the combination of sex _and Bruce_ , because there had been that one time when he was twelve and he had inadvertently (and that was a genuine _inadvertently_ , not at all like his later admitted _advertently_ 's) seen Bruce fucking some woman whose name he didn't even know, in the upstairs wine pantry during a party, the woman's legs curled around Bruce's waist and moaning with every thrust, Bruce bare-assed and gripping her thighs. 

So yeah, he knew Bruce had sex, he knew Bruce liked sex, he had no problem thinking of Bruce as a sexual being. It wasn't that.

It was the fact of who Bruce was having sex with. That was what made his brain stutter and say: _No no, despite the clear evidence of your senses, Dick Grayson, that cannot possibly be the explanation, there must be something else going on here that you have just not figured out yet._

It was that it was Clark, kneeling in between Bruce's knees. Kneeling in between his knees, Bruce's legs spread wide for him, Clark's head bent to his groin with quiet intentness, and still— _still_ —Dick's brain had said, _My goodness, I wonder what is going on here!_ And then, when he had turned around, smacked the shit out of his brain, and said _you idiot, what do you think is going on_ , he found he was unable to move. 

Unable to move because a) if he exited the cave now, his sure instinct for gliding in shadows told him they were sure to see him, since further motion on the stairs would likely draw their attention; and unable to move because b) it was fucking hot.

So there he stood, on the upper landing of the stairs of the cave, with a clear and unobstructed view of Bruce's chair below, and Bruce in his chair, and Clark between Bruce's knees. Bruce was in the suit, his cowl pushed off his face. He was watching Clark, and his face was unreadable. He was utterly motionless. The only motion in the cave was Clark, and the steady motion of his head. 

_Holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck_ sang the chorus in Dick's head, only it wasn't a chorus, it was more like the Vienna Boys Choir of internal musical repetition, with four-part harmony and full symphony orchestra. It was the original Broadway cast of Les Mis, all flinging wide their arms and belting out _Holy Fuck!_ at the top of their voices. And still Bruce did not move, or do anything but sit there. And still Clark was intent on his task, which was largely hidden from Dick's view.

Suddenly, and without warning, Bruce made a small noise he had never heard Bruce make before. The only thing that changed was that Bruce's head hit the back of his chair, hard. _Oh my God, he's coming_ , Dick thought. Transfixed, he watched Clark's throat swallow, and swallow again. _He's swallowing Bruce's spunk_ , he thought, and his own throat convulsively clenched. 

It was his only possible moment of escape, and he took it. He slipped out the staircase door, as quietly as he had entered, while the attention of the two below was decidedly elsewhere. He leaned against the other side of the door and tried to pull himself together. 

So, okay, yes, he was hard. Three-quarters of the way to hard. That was a whole other set of problems he would worry about once he was safely away from the Manor. 

That night, in his apartment, he idly opened some porn in another window. He knew his favorites; he knew the things he liked. But tonight, for some reason, he wanted something a little. . . different. Tonight, he watched a clip of a blow job, which normally he found about as exciting as watching paint dry. Weird thing about porn—sometimes the most enjoyable things to do in bed made for very bad TV. And the reverse was true, too, because blow jobs. But it was different tonight. Tonight, he slid his eyes shut and saw, not the sleek fake-looking guys on the screen, but more rugged, familiar bodies—dark-haired, stern-jawed, quiet, eyes only on each other. 

"Fuck," he gasped, as he came over his hand. The aftershocks curled his spine. His balls ached with how good it was. He wiped his shaking hand on a towel, and tried to settle his breathing. 

He hoped the BPD's insurance coverage was decent when it came to mental health, because clearly he was going to be in need of some serious therapy.


	2. Epilogue, of sorts

"So whatever happened with that narcotics ring you helped take down?" Clark was sugaring his coffee. After a certain amount of sugar, why were you even drinking coffee? But that was the kind of thing you didn't say to Superman. 

"Oh, that went down like some ninety percent of busts in Bludhaven. The low-level and mid-level guys were back on the street within hours, and the guys we were actually after are untouchable. So, you know, all in a day's."

"Mm." Clark made a sympathetic noise and gestured to the waitress for a menu. "I'm thinking I might have some pie. You want some pie?"

"Yeah, pie sounds good. So, what's up? Everything okay?"

"Everything's fine." Dick watched him order (one apple and one peach pie) watched him rearrange his coffee, watched him tap the spoon against the side of his coffee cup. 

"Really? I mean, not that I don't appreciate the chance to spend some time with you, but when you call me out of the blue and ask if we can have coffee, you'll understand why I worry that something's up."

"Mm," Clark said again. "Well, your instincts are not wrong."

"I was trained by the best."

"That you were."

"So. . ." Dick spread his hands. "We return to my previous question. What's up?"

"What's up is, I need a favor."

Whatever he had been expecting to hear, that wasn't it. He wasn't sure Clark had ever asked him for a favor. Ever asked anyone for a favor, for that matter. He leaned back in the booth and took in the moment. "You need a favor. From me. Well, the pie is a nice gesture, but Clark, it's not like I would ever say no. Seriously. Whatever you need, man, you got it."

"I appreciate that. I really do. What I need is, I need for you never to mention to Bruce what you saw last week in the Batcave."

It was only thanks to all that training that Dick's coffee didn't spray the back wall of the diner. He managed to swallow it down, and only coughed once. He wiped his mouth with his hand. "Ahhh. . ." he said. "Okay. I was not—I never—it was an accident, I didn't—"

"I know that," Clark said, as calmly as if they were talking about pie. "I'm just asking that it not become a subject of discussion."

Dick studied his napkin. "I hope you know I would never, in a million years, have mentioned that to anybody," he said.

"I know that too."

"So, ah. . " Dick wiped at his face. "Okay. You. . . knew I was there. I mean, obviously, you knew I was there."

"I did. Heartbeats are very distinctive, and very hard to miss." 

"You, ah—wait, you can tell who somebody is from their heartbeat? How is that even possible?"

"Not everyone. Just people I know really well. I couldn't explain how it's possible. In theory, all healthy hearts ought to sound alike. All I can tell you is, they don't."

"Wow," Dick said, momentarily lost. "That is fucking amazing. So how many heartbeats can you recognize like that, just by hearing them?"

"Just a few."

Dick grinned. It was stupid that after all these years of knowing Clark, finding out he was one of a handful could still make him feel special, like the movie star had just invited him over for a pool date. Funny how Clark could do that to people. Bruce used to say that there were two kinds of people: people who were impressed by Superman, and liars. 

"So you knew it was me," Dick mused. "And you. . . didn't stop?"

Clark arched a flawless brow. "I figured the disadvantages outweighed the advantages."

Dick blinked at him. _Wow, I've never heard anyone sound more like Bruce than Bruce_ was probably not the thing to say here. So he settled for: "You mean, Bruce would have killed me."

"He wouldn't have done that. But he—" Clark broke off, licked his lips. Something told Dick this conversation was not going the way Clark had planned it to go. "Please. I just need you not to ask Bruce about what you saw. For my sake."

"Well, you might find this hard to believe, but Bruce and I do not actually kick back of a Friday evening and share stories about our sex lives. I had about zero intention of bringing it up with him, ever." 

"Thank you. I'm glad to hear it."

"For one thing, it's not my business."

"Agreed."

"But if it were—"

"I thought we had just agreed it wasn't?"

"No no, I'm just saying. If it were, and I did ask Bruce about it, what would he be likely to tell me, about your relationship?"

Clark appeared very interested in his coffee, which suddenly required more stirring. "He would say. . . you know, the truth is, Dick, I have no idea what he would say to you. But I do know what he would say to me. And I would prefer to avoid that, if possible."

"Even Superman fears the wrath of the Bat?"

Clark was giving him an odd look. "You think it's Bruce's anger I'm worried about?"

"Well. . ."

"Dick. I'm asking you this because whatever Bruce and I have, he would end it. He would end it absolutely and without question. Do you understand?"

Dick wrapped his hands around his coffee. "Yeah," he said. "Of course I do." There were about a thousand questions spinning in his head, and he figured he only got one. _Was this going on all the time I was growing up? How often do you guys get it on? And what is it exactly you do? Is it just that he lets you suck him when he feels like it? Or do you guys do other things? Do you fuck? Do you top, or does he? What does Bruce sound like when he's getting fucked? If he ended it, how destroyed would you be? Do you love him?_

But as he studied his coffee, he realized that his years of investigative training had equipped him to know most of those answers already. Instinct and observation told him the answers were, in order: no; not that often; pretty much whatever they felt like; no; yes; probably, though not definitely; if so, probably varied; unbelievable; completely; yes.

He sipped his coffee and contemplated these answers. Of course it had been foolish to wonder if it had been going on while he was growing up; for one thing, if it had been going on for ten years or more, Clark would hardly be worried that it was likely to end anytime soon. But the way Bruce had looked at him—that hadn't been the gaze of a recent lover, either. It had been. . . he realized he didn't have a word for it. He had never seen anyone look at a lover that way. He knew for a fact no one had ever looked at him that way. He wasn't sure what that look was, but it wasn't as simple as love, or as straightforward as lust. 

Clark was still watching him, and Dick could see the small line of concern in between his brows, at Dick's prolonged silence. "Of course I understand," Dick repeated. "It's just wrong."

"Wrong," Clark said. " _Wrong_. I admit I didn't see that one coming. What exactly do you find so _wrong_ about—"

"No no no! I didn't mean that. I didn't mean your. . .thing. . . is wrong. I meant you were wrong about Bruce ending it if he found out that I knew. Or was it more if he knew that you knew that I knew, and didn't tell him? Whatever. My point stands. And my point is, you're wrong. Bruce isn't ending it with you, not now, not tomorrow, not anytime soon."

"I see." Clark looked faintly amused. "And you know this how?"

Dick tapped his spoon against his napkin. "Because I just do, is all."

"I see."

"And because I saw his face."

"I—excuse me?"

"That night in the cave. I saw what you didn't. I saw his face, when he looked at you." 

Clark's own face was absolutely still, and absolutely unreadable. "There's a lot about life you don't know," was all he said, finally and faintly, while contemplating his coffee. 

_And there are evidently some things about Bruce you don't know_ , he was tempted to reply, but he held his tongue, for once. It was funny, how inscrutable the rest of the world found Bruce. Maybe it took being raised by him; maybe it took crawling into his bed when the nightmares found you, and feeling those broad strong arms come around you and hold you so close, so safe; maybe it took whispering your fears into the dark while a large hand stroked your head and whispered back that you were safe now, safe forever, safe always. Maybe it took seeing that face every morning over toast and coffee, but the fact of it was, he could read every emotion, every thought written on it, clear as a billboard, and always had. Maybe it took loving a face to read it that well. But Clark loved him too, he knew that now. Which meant that whatever Clark had failed to see, was something Bruce didn't want him to see.

"Maybe so," was all he said. He let Clark pay for the pie and the coffee, and headed back to the station with his coat wrapped tight against the winter chill, lost in his thoughts.


End file.
